


No Such Thing As Company

by Lake (beyond_belief)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Flashbacks, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyond_belief/pseuds/Lake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It becomes sort of routine, after that. Sherlock shows up most nights, but not all. Some, he sits in Greg's usual chair with Greg's laptop and does God knows what on the internet while Greg lies on the sofa watching Graham Norton. Some nights, Sherlock sits reading a book, but next to Greg on the sofa while Greg watches Graham Norton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Such Thing As Company

"How long?" John asked, after a while, after three cups of tea, after the table next to them had cycled through two sets of inhabitants. (Both couples, all thinking about sex, judging from the wine and the dessert they'd ordered.) 

Lestrade drummed his fingers briefly on the table. Then he pulled his hand back into his lap. "A few weeks, only."

John nodded. 

"You're making that face," Lestrade said. 

He schooled it to blankness. "What face is that?"

"The one where you look down, and stick your jaw out a little, like you're... contemplating." The corner of Lestrade's mouth twitched slightly, but it wasn't a smile. John knew it wasn't a smile. Lestrade glanced away, out the window of the restaurant. John knew that feeling as well - the one where sometimes the company of another person was the most uncomfortable thing in the world. 

After a few seconds, Lestrade said, "You weren't the only one to learn things from him."

It was John's turn to look away, then. He fiddled with his cup in its saucer, but the tea now left in the bottom was cold. He kept his eyes fixed on it for a moment longer, though, because he wasn't sure he wanted to look at Lestrade. He let it go until Lestrade cleared his throat. "John."

"Yes?"

"All right?" Lestrade's expression was cautious. 

"It's all - fine." John rattled his cup again, then checked his mobile under the table. When he looked up at Lestrade once more, the Inspector had leaned back in his chair and was staring out the window, watching people pass on the street. His hands were still in his lap. John found he couldn't bear not to know. He said, "Tell me."

Lestrade, to his credit, didn't question. "After Dartmoor."

* * *

When he opens the door to find Sherlock there, Greg only sighs. "I won't bother to ask how you knew where I was."

"Why waste time on such an idiotic question?"

Greg gives him a look as if to say _Well, we are wasting time on this conversation_ , and Sherlock pushes past him into the flat with a great swirl of coat. Underneath it he's wearing a dark suit, as usual, but tonight there's a loose tie around his neck, half-hidden by the scarf. Greg's confused by the tie; he's never seen Sherlock in a tie in all the years he's known the man. 

"Your wife's left you, for good this time," Sherlock says, and it's not a question.

That distracts him from the oddity of Sherlock's ensemble. "Yes, and thanks for making me feel worse about the whole bloody situation," he snaps, irritated. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Must you always be so infuriating?"

Sherlock stops moving and blinks at him. Then he shrugs, pulls off his scarf. 

"Ah, let me ask a different question. What are you _doing_ here?"

Long fingers tug at the tie as Sherlock ignores his question. "How do you people wear these things? I can't stand it," he moans, and yanks it off as well. 

"I hardly ever wear one of the damn things, and that's not the point - _Sherlock_." Then he stops, because - _oh_. He's never seen Sherlock in a tie because he's never seen Sherlock in a tie. "What are you doing? Be specific." 

Sherlock likes specificity and Greg knows this. But tonight he just stares and doesn't say anything. 

So Greg gives up. "It's late. I'm tired. Please, Sherlock, just tell me what you're doing here." 

"Isn't it obvious?"

"No, it's not obvious," he growls, glaring at Sherlock. "Couldn't you at least _try_ to be a normal human being for once?"

"Boring," Sherlock huffs, and takes Greg's face in his hands and kisses him. 

It's not at all what Greg expects. And it's not at all a kiss the way he expects kisses to be. Sherlock's mouth is on his, yes, and Sherlock seems to be _trying_ , but Greg can practically hear him thinking, and that's not sexy at all. This is just odd, because he knew Sherlock before Sherlock got clean, and Greg knows he's no virgin. Maybe he's clueless sober. 

He pulls back, saying, "Wait."

"A failed experiment, then."

"No," he replies, even as he cringes inside at being referred to as an experiment. He'd never let Sherlock see it, though. "Try again. But don't think about it so hard."

Sherlock gives him a look, the kind that Greg would normally want to punch him for if it weren't for the twin spots of color in Sherlock's cheeks. "Easy for you to say, Inspector. But I can hardly turn it _off_."

"Jesus, you're insufferable." He knows he could tell Sherlock to get out, and Sherlock would probably leave. But he doesn't want Sherlock to go. Whatever Sherlock is trying to do here, he's intrigued. He's not averse to Sherlock, but Greg had been under the impression that Sherlock had been sort of averse to this sort of thing for the last few years. "Come here. And take your coat off, for Christ's sake."

Sherlock drops his coat immediately. 

"Now, let _me_ ," Greg says, and uses a hand on Sherlock's jaw to guide him in. 

Sherlock makes a soft noise as their mouths connect, a detail that Greg doesn't expect. He keeps his hand on Sherlock's face, uses his thumb to reach between them and part Sherlock's lips, so that he can kiss him deeper. Sherlock makes another noise at this and his fingers curl hard around Greg's upper arms. 

_Fuck._

Greg pulls back slightly. "All right, Sherlock?"

"Perfectly fine, Inspector." 

This close, he's not sure what color Sherlock's eyes are and Sherlock's pupils are so blown Greg can't make out much of his irises besides. He might need another drink. "And the kissing?" he asks, because he has to ask, some needling part of himself can't go without knowing. 

Sherlock gives him that slightly superior look he's perfected, and that Greg has learned to ignore almost every time, and kisses him again. Softer, this time, but obviously having picked up on all the things Greg had been trying in the last kiss. 

Then Greg stops and puts his hands firmly on Sherlock's shoulders. "Come off it, Sherlock. Tell me. What. Is. This."

Sherlock stares at him for what must be minutes, which is weird, because (again) this is Sherlock and normally it takes him three seconds to infer -and then inform everyone in his immediate vicinity - that Anderson and Donovan had spent the night together, or some other embarrassingly personal tidbit that Greg doesn't want to know about his subordinates. 

Finally, Greg says, "I'm not going to fuck you tonight, but the bed's big enough for two. Come on."

*

It becomes sort of routine, after that. Sherlock shows up most nights, but not all. Some, he sits in Greg's usual chair with Greg's laptop and does God knows what on the internet while Greg lies on the sofa watching Graham Norton. Some nights, Sherlock sits reading a book, but next to Greg on the sofa while Greg watches Graham Norton. 

Sometimes they kiss.

They do not have sex.

Sherlock rarely stays the night. Greg will normally proclaim himself knackered hours before Sherlock is done mucking about online, and go to bed as though Sherlock isn't even there. Occasionally he'll wake to find Sherlock asleep next to him, but mostly he's alone when he wakes up in the morning. 

Sherlock doesn't seem to care that they're not having sex, and Greg's usually too tired after fourteen-, fifteen-, sixteen-hour days to give it much thought. He's sure that's one of the reasons his wife left, but Sherlock doesn't even mention it.

Then one day he lets himself into the flat to find Sherlock already there (having broken in, which figures), pacing back and forth the length of the sitting room. He keeps pacing while Greg makes himself a plate of pasta, pausing only to take one reluctant bite that Greg holds out to him on the fork. 

When Greg sits down on the sofa with a glass of wine, leaving the chair open, Sherlock instead folds his body down onto the floor between Greg's feet. Greg looks down at him, and his first thought is that Sherlock's head blocks the bottom of the telly. He reaches out and runs his hand gently through Sherlock's hair. 

All of Sherlock's body seems to sigh. 

"Oh," Greg murmurs. Sherlock stiffens again; Greg says, "No, just stay."

Sherlock does, although it takes him a few moments to relax completely again, even with Greg's hand carding through his hair. Then Greg feels Sherlock touch his ankle lightly. He says, "You know, your brother did try to bribe me to go to Dartmoor and spy on you."

Sherlock's fingers tap his foot.

"But I said no to his money. He managed to miss the fact that hanging out and solving bizarre mysteries with you and John is infinitely more exciting than my actual job."

"You should have taken his money," Sherlock replies, sounding drowsy. "Your socks have holes."

*

Greg decides to conduct his own experiment. The next time Sherlock's over and Greg's making a late dinner for himself, he makes a slightly larger portion than he'd normally do. Every few bites, he holds the fork wordlessly in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock gives him a shrewd look the first time, but accepts.

"Do you enjoy watching me eat?" Sherlock asks, as Greg's doing the washing up.

"Yeah, I guess."

Sherlock hums. "It it about watching me eat, or being the one to feed me?"

Greg leans back against the edge of the countertop, drying his hands on a towel. Then he grabs Sherlock round the waist and pulls him close. "You think I've forgotten seeing John shove toast at you more than once? Clearly you ignore food unless someone else is paying attention for you."

"I'm not anorexic," Sherlock snaps, annoyed by the implication that he would actively avoid eating. Up close, the irritated look makes his face look exceptional. "I simply forget, especially when I'm working."

Greg doesn't bother reminding him that his stupid, overactive, genius brain needs fuel, too. Mostly because Sherlock would probably tell him that all those words together constitute some sort of oxymoron. "Yeah? What are you working on right now?"

Sherlock says glumly, "Nothing. _Cold cases_."

"Tell me," Greg suggests, spreading the collar of Sherlock's button-down a little wider, so he can nip at Sherlock's collarbone, press his mouth to Sherlock's pulse. This is their other, new game: Sherlock tells him countless, minute details of whatever case he's working on, while Greg tries to distract him. It usually doesn't work all that well. But it lets Sherlock talk out his theories, and lets Greg both annoy him and indulge in him at the same time, while Greg's still paying a little attention and occasionally offering a police opinion. 

"- a footprint in the mud, deep and with a distinctive tread pattern, a male who rolls his ankles inward -" Sherlock is saying, and then his breath hitches as Greg sucks on the pulse point in his neck. He undoes another few buttons on Sherlock's shirt. "- and no one thought to print the feet of the family members, _idiots_ -" 

"Hold on, are you talking about those old assaults in Cherwell?" He pulls back slightly, eying the marks he's left on Sherlock's pale skin. 

"Keep up, Lestrade, honestly," Sherlock mutters, even as he's the one now slumped against the counter, his breath coming a little faster. He doesn't bother trying to straighten his clothes.

Greg just rolls his eyes at Sherlock's half-hearted scorn. "I'm sure I'll need your bloody help on something sooner rather than later, what with my complete incompetence and all." 

Sherlock gives him a look that could mean _come off it, you're not that awful_ , but Greg's not entirely sure. "Are we going to bed?" he demands.

"As though you sleep," Greg huffs, but Sherlock follows behind him to the bedroom. He sits down on the bed and watches Greg undress. 

Greg pauses in reaching for the worn t-shirt he wears as pajamas, looking at Sherlock with his shirt still half-open, his fingers flexing around the edge of the mattress. Surely he can't be _nervous_ ; Greg's never seen Sherlock nervous, and maybe they've been going about this a bit oddly but sex is just _sex_. Finally, he asks, "Are you staying, or just staring?"

"Oh, um -" Sherlock's forehead creases as though he's not quite sure. 

"It doesn't matter to me," Greg says hurriedly, although he'd like him to stay, because Sherlock looks quite dishevelled and Greg's not _immune_ to all that pale skin. Not to mention he'd like to be the one to make Sherlock stop thinking for a while. He still picks up the shirt, figuring it unlikely to happen tonight.

"Well, it's about time, don't you think?" Sherlock starts in on the remainder of his buttons, still with that furrow to his brow. 

Greg drops the nightshirt again and watches Sherlock undress. Shirt, trousers, socks all land in a haphazard pile next to the bed. Greg wonders idly who irons Sherlock's clothes. _He probably pays Mrs. Hudson to do it,_ he thinks. Sherlock's still thin - a fact that had never been obscured by his Consulting Detective wardrobe - but he's no longer deathly skinny like he was when he'd been using. 

Greg wonders, and not for the first time, if Sherlock even remembers that arrest or if he'd been way too high. But now's not the time to ask. Instead, he says quietly, "Your marks are all gone."

"They've been healed quite some time," Sherlock replies with yet another arch look. "I already told you I'm clean."

"You get tested?" He knows Sherlock will understand the question. 

"Every six months. I do my own bloodwork in the lab at Bart's."

"That's only a little disgusting." 

"I could have Molly do it," Sherlock says, and that's _definitely_ a joke. "If you're worried - surely you have condoms?"

"Bedside table there, in the drawer." Greg jerks his chin in the correct direction, and it strikes him that he's about to have sex with another man in the same bed his wife had slept in. He brushes the thought aside, as surely she'd brushed it aside as well. "Wife didn't want kids, which is just as well with the mess she made, but I was faithful the whole time."

"I know," Sherlock murmurs, with a look that might be sympathy. He takes two condoms from the drawer and lays them on the table's wooden surface. "What do you like?"

"You can't tell just by looking at me?" He steps toward Sherlock.

Sherlock purses his lips. "I can't quite decide if you want to throw me down on the bed, or if you want me to pull you down."

"Let's go with the first option this time," Greg replies, and pushes Sherlock down onto the worn coverlet, then covers Sherlock's body with his own. 

Sherlock's hands are warm. Greg's not sure why he's always surprised by that. They skim over his back, then his shoulders, then his neck as he kisses his way down Sherlock's torso. He yanks Sherlock's briefs down as he goes, and as Sherlock squirms out of them his cock is very close to Greg's face. Greg presses an open-mouthed kiss to his pale hip. 

"Do you want -" Sherlock breathes, pressing a condom against Greg's forehead. 

He thinks about it for a second, then takes the packet from Sherlock's hand. The taste of latex isn't the sexiest thing he's ever experienced, but he'll make it work. 

Sherlock lets out a shaking sort of moan as Greg rolls the condom onto his cock and follows it with his mouth. Greg hasn't done this in decades and doesn't actually trust Sherlock not to critique his technique, so when Sherlock pushes himself up on his elbows, Greg pulls off and slides a hand up to the middle of his chest. He pushes Sherlock down again. "Stay."

"I only wanted to watch," Sherlock complains.

"Don't make me stop again," Greg warns, and Sherlock huffs but doesn't move. 

Greg focuses on making it good instead of the ache in his jaw. Small noises and hands on his face (not the top of his head; that's an interesting difference) tell him what Sherlock appreciates - a firm grip at the base, slow up-and-down. Under his free hand, he can feel the tension in Sherlock's thigh. 

Sherlock's thumb curves down over his jawline, then traces along his mouth. Greg's not prepared for the spike of desire that cleaves through _him_ at the feel of Sherlock's fingertips testing. He sucks hard, once, and Sherlock's hand drops away.

Then Sherlock pushes him off. Greg can hear his own breath, ragged and panting. "You didn't have to -" he starts to say, but Sherlock pins him with a look. 

Greg slides up Sherlock's body to kiss him, which Sherlock relents to immediately. "Really," Greg murmurs into the kiss, "wanted to get you off like that."

(It's the dirtiest thing he's said to anyone in ages. And going down on Sherlock is probably the dirtiest thing he's done in ages. He's a middle-aged guy whose wife cheated on him for years and he let her because he'd cared more about his job, and now he's in bed with a man who is a thousand times smarter than he is and who he has to call to close at least thirty percent of his cases.

And Sherlock, although he'll never come out and say it, likes the work so much that he'll insult everyone but Greg straight to their faces. Well, maybe other people would consider what Sherlock does say to him to be an insult, but Greg knows better.)

"I don't want to yet," Sherlock answers, working a hand down between them.

"Only you could sound petulant during sex." But he shudders at Sherlock's touch all the same as Sherlock begins to jerk him off. He mutters, "You should let me reciprocate here," and Sherlock only scoffs and tightens his grip. 

He comes embarrassingly fast - when Sherlock leans up and bites his neck and says, "I'll let you fuck me," that's all it takes. 

When his brain has sorted itself out again and he can look at Sherlock, the other man raises an eyebrow at him and says, "I'll remember that for next time."

Greg wraps his hand around Sherlock's cock in response.

When they've cleaned up, he expects Sherlock to get dressed and leave, but Sherlock merely gets into the bed next to him and slides close. 

"Staying then?" Greg asks.

"Yes."

Greg turns off the lamp on the table and pulls the sheet up over them. There's silence for a second before Sherlock murmurs, "Greg."

"What?"

"You'll want to watch out for Moriarty," Sherlock mutters, his lips against the back of Greg's neck. 

Greg stirs slightly. "What? Oh." Trust Sherlock to bring up supposed criminal masterminds when he should be near unconscious, and what does Sherlock _mean_ besides? He's too tired to think about it right now, so he just says, "Alright." 

Sherlock falls asleep with his arm draped over Greg's middle, and it's the first time Greg thinks _we might have something here_.

The ring of his phone wakes him up, and he realizes he's alone as he fumbles to answer. "Lestrade."

It's the duty sergeant, sorry to have to get him out of bed before dawn. There's been a kidnapping, a VP at Barclay's, a trail of blood drops going out of the man's garage. He hurries to dress and as he's pulling on his shirt, catches sight of his shoulder in the mirror. There are red marks - teeth. Sherlock had bitten him. 

He pulls out his phone to send a text as he gets into a cab. _Kidnapping. Might need your help. - GL_

*

He doesn't tell John all of everything, of course. But he also doesn't attempt to make it sound more conventional than it was, because John knows how Sherlock is. Greg doubts there's anyone on Earth who knows Sherlock better than John and he wonders, and not for the first time, why Sherlock had chosen to sleep with him instead of John. He wonders if they'll ever know, now. 

* * *

When Lestrade stopped, John flagged down the waitress for another cuppa, so that he didn't have to look at Lestrade for a few moments, and so the Inspector could compose himself. 

"Sorry," Lestrade said, clearing his throat.

"No, it's fine."

"You know I didn't want to arrest him, that night."

John chuckled despite himself. "I know."

Lestrade looked at him straight on. “Do you honestly think he’s dead? Gone, for real?” he asked, and for a fleeting second he looked so miserable that John wanted to ask him if he was actually in love with Sherlock. But John was not unfamiliar with that particular feeling of misery, and didn’t wish to make Lestrade feel any worse by asking.

He looked up at the ceiling of the cafe, thinking his answer through for a moment. "I don't want to believe that Sherlock is dead. And if he's not, then there's a reason why he's not here."

Lestrade nodded. The waitress brought a fresh pot. John checked his phone, but there was still nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my usual RJJ trio!


End file.
